


With These Two Hands

by Witchy1ness



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Light Angst with a Happy Ending, introspective Illya fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 14:31:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14875559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witchy1ness/pseuds/Witchy1ness
Summary: Illya thinks he's no good for Gaby. Fortunately, Gaby knows better.





	With These Two Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redbrunja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrunja/gifts).



> All recognizable characters are the property of Ian Fleming and Warner Bros., I'm just borrowing them :)
> 
>  
> 
> Reviews and constructive criticism welcome; flames will be ignored.

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The first time Illya Kuryakin meets Gabriella Teller is…inauspicious, to say the least. Although you can’t call trying to run someone down and shoot them an actual _meeting_ , it still doesn’t exactly make for the best first impression; although Illya has no intentions of apologizing. After all, it’s not like he was trying to _kill_ her, anyway, just prevent the American from getting away with her.

(Which he does rather successfully, which turns out to be rather humiliating for Illya.)

Though circumstances have changed by the time of their second meeting, his impression of her as a pawn has not, so he doesn’t take it personally when she is less than thrilled with the development of their ‘relationship’. 

She’s merely been foisted upon him for the sake of the latest mission – another irritant to add to the indignity of also having to work with an _American_ – the same American he’d been trying to kill, aggravatingly enough.

Initially, Illya considers Gaby a puppet at best; a dead weight at worst. She gains a measure of grudging respect when she calls him out on his utter unpreparedness in attempting to masquerade as an architect, but when they’re confronted by the muggers and he has to act contrary to what every fibre of his being is telling him to do – and she has the nerve to _encourage_ him – he comes very close to outright loathing.

However as the mission progresses and he begrudgingly gets to know her, Illya finds himself reluctantly reassessing his impression.

She is completely untrained, aside from her top-notch skills as a driver and a mechanic; and apparently unaware of the liability that that makes her. But although he doubts she knows much about him, she should know _at least_ enough to know better than to stand there, completely unconcerned that he could snap her neck as easily as breathing if he were so inclined, staring up at him with drunken, doe-brown eyes. 

He struggles a little, not sure how to respond to this tiny _fraulein_ who fearlessly takes his large hands in her tiny calloused ones and drunkenly claps them together. It’s…vaguely amusing, right up until the point she makes him slap himself. The glare Illya shoots her as he tenses should flay her alive, but Gaby just giggles an apology and keeps dancing. He doesn’t have time to wonder why he lets her before she does it again.

And then she full out _tackles_ him and it takes him so by surprise that she actually knocks him off his feet. And then they’re wrestling and making an absolute mess of the suite, and Illya’s not entirely sure why he doesn’t just throw her off after he lets her pin him.

It isn’t until she’s passed out on top of him and he feels a breath of disappointment that he starts to consider that _maybe_ he’s in trouble. 

(The very obvious hangover amnesia she suffers from the next morning only increases his conflicting feelings, as does the unexpected spurt of jealousy at the thought of Alexander Vinciguerra trying to woo her away.)

The way she makes him want to protect her one moment and then throttle her the next – or actually put her over his knee, as he’d initially threatened – drives him nearly to distraction.

He hadn’t been lying when he’d told her he liked his women strong; but it wasn’t just physical strength he’d meant. Gaby doesn’t hesitate to pull her punches – either verbally or physically – if she has a problem with you; that apparent fearlessness coupled with the complete unconcern she evidences when calling him or Solo out over their bullshit is an unexpected pleasure. She doesn’t back down or blink at anything that is thrown her way, just rolls with it and adapts; sometimes even better than he or Solo does.

Each new facet of information he learns about her only increases his attraction, to the point that it interferes with his ability to put the mission first. And to a KGB agent, that sort of distraction can prove fatal.

(The fact that it very nearly _does_ is an abrupt wake-up call, though perversely it only increases his admiration for her – although it is rather washed away initially on a tide of betrayal and running for his life.)

But Gaby’s methods of carrying out future missions also makes it hauntingly apparent that despite the fact that they are in the same situation _now_ , how they both arrived there are very, very different.

Though she has never known her mother, and was essentially abandoned by her father, Gaby spent the majority of her life with a family that loved her. Not that it was an _easy_ life, growing up as she did behind the Iron Curtain; but neither was it the worst that could have happened to her. Even as a sleeper agent it wasn’t as if her day-to-day life was much affected.

But for all that she’d survived so far, to say nothing of how she seemed to take to espionage work like she’d been born to it, convinced that she could meet and surpass any challenge this daunting lifestyle would ask of her, Gaby was still too… _innocent_ a person for the likes of Illya Kuryakin. 

Up until his father had been caught embezzling, the Kuryakins had enjoyed the lifestyle typical of the family of a high-ranking Party member. But once his father had been sent to the gulag, everything had changed for the worse. His mother became a social pariah, scorned by the women who’d once considered her a friend (although their husbands had had an altogether different opinion); and Illya became the target of bullying and ridicule. He’d been only twelve the first time he’d killed a man, during one of the earliest instances of the rage descending on him. He could still remember the feeling of that red curtain lifting to find himself naked and covered with blood, shaking like a leaf in a snowstorm. 

He’d been given a wide berth after that; one that only got wider as he threw himself into judo and SAMBO training. By the time he was accepted into the KGB, most knew better than to challenge him. By the time he became one of their top-ranking agents, _everyone_ knew better. 

Yet underlining it all was the shame that still lingered on the Kuryakin name from his father’s misdeeds and his mother’s subsequent fall from grace; an ever-present taint that shadowed his every action. 

And though he’d worked hard to mitigate said shadow, the methods he’d undertaken to do so have left his hands stained red and his soul in a state he doesn’t care to look too closely at. 

But none of that stops him from wanting Gaby, even as guilt and shame and recriminations claw at his insides. 

There are times when he is able to carry out his missions just the same as he ever did, reaping through any and all obstacles while barely blinking; and yet on others, he comes dangerously close to second-guessing himself, acutely conscious that how _he_ perceives the actions he takes may not be how _she_ would. And that…matters to him. 

A lot.

And it bothers him _immensely_ that it does; to the point that he’s taken to ignoring Gaby outside of mission-mandated interactions as he struggles with it.

(It hadn’t taken long for Gaby to notice, which had led to an argument the likes of which had nearly forced Solo to actually _sit_ on the woman when she’d been determined to follow Illya after he’d stormed off; she still hasn’t forgiven either of them for it.)

To further complicate matters, the physical chemistry between the two of them is _insane_. It’s easy enough to admit (in the privacy of his own mind - never mind Solo’s irritating, knowing smirks) that he is attracted to Gaby; what’s hard is what he’s supposed to _do_ with the knowledge. 

He knows what he _wants_ to do – but he’s not entirely sure if that sort of attention would be welcomed with _open_ arms or _fire_ arms. They’ve had several almost-moments (plus one she doesn’t remember), but he’s not _sure_.

All of which brings him to now, staring moodily at his hands clasped loosely around a tumbler of untouched vodka (vodka because it’s what Gaby drinks, untouched because he can’t risk loosening the fraying chains on his temper), forcing a hard, simple truth on himself:

He isn’t good enough for her. 

There’s too much blood on his hands and too many skeletons in his closet – and the shadow the Motherland casts is deep and dark across his shoulders. 

And he can’t – _won’t_ – drag Gaby any further into that world than their work with U.N.C.L.E. already does. 

(But as slim, work-roughened fingers close around his wrist, there’s one thing Illya Kuryakin has failed to consider:  
He may not want to drag Gaby further into the shadows, but there’s nothing that says she can’t do her damnedest to drag him _out_ of them.)

The lightest brush of lips against his cheek makes him start, and he’s reaching for a knife before the familiar scents of motor oil and _4711_ register. 

“Darling, I think it’d be best to – is everything alright?”

The endearment catches Illya off-guard for a moment before he remembers they’re undercover, and he feels the sweat bead on his brow as he forces himself to relax while berating himself for yet another slip.

Gaby’s expression is pleasant enough, perfectly in character, but Illya can sense the storm brewing behind her brown eyes. 

He dreads the thought of going back to the hotel with no Solo to act as a buffer, and then hates himself for the thought. 

Allowing himself to become this affected by Gaby is a little like a tiger cowering in front of a hissing house cat, but Illya doesn’t see any other choice.

“What – I – yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

He stands, leaving the drink untouched on the bar as Gaby slides her hand from his wrist to nestle it securely in the crook of his elbow.

“The Brightwaters have extended an invitation for luncheon tomorrow; I hope it’s alright that I’ve accepted?”

The arch of her eyebrow and the pointed tone tell him it _better_ be okay – never mind the fact that such an invitation is the entire point of this evening – and Illya doesn’t bother to fight the fond smile stretching across his face. 

“Of course.”

They exchange good-night pleasantries with the couple suspected of laundering money to a rather unscrupulous gang before taking their leave and stepping out into the warm summer night. 

As they’re walking back to the hotel, Gaby tugs on his arm until it straightens, and then ever-so-casually slides her hand down until their fingers intertwine. 

She’s never done that before and Illya stiffens in shock, but aside from a challenging sideways glance Gaby says nothing, merely gripping his hand in a surprisingly firm hold. 

They walk in silence as Illya struggles to take in this new development: was it just a move on Gaby’s part to fool the two men he knows are following them? Or…

Her hand feels so tiny engulfed in his, but surprisingly strong. He can feel the callouses on her skin and is seized by a sudden urge to kiss each one. 

Which means Gaby easily catches him off-guard – he’s really going to get himself killed if he doesn’t get it together – when she essentially body-checks him into an alley. 

“What –“

“Shut up and kiss me,” Gaby whispers urgently, and Illya feels his eyes pop.

_“What-“_

_“Now_ , Illya!”

His body makes the decision for him. While his brain is still dithering over it, his free hand comes up to cup her cheek and then he’s ducking his head and kissing her, pouring every tumultuous emotion she stirs in him into it. 

Illya’s not sure how long they stand there, making out in the dark, dank alley like a couple of teenagers, but by the time they break apart they’re both short of breath.

Even in the dim light he can see the way Gaby’s eyes have glazed, though he’s sure his expression isn’t much better as he struggles to put his brain back together.

“You think….this will have convinced them?” he finally manages to ask as she pulls him back out of the alley, fingers once more wrapped around his.

Gaby casts a curious look at him as she murmurs, “Convinced who of what?”

“The men who follow us that we – that we are together.” 

Who are _still_ following them, come to that. 

“There are men following us?”

And Illya nearly stops dead on the street, mind short-circuiting as he tries to parse Gaby’s response, taking in the genuine surprise on her face. 

He only keeps moving due to Gaby’s tug on his hand, mind whirling as he realizes she wasn’t being facetious – she truly had had no idea they were being followed until he’d said something.

Which meant –

“Keep moving Illya, or they’re going to get suspicious,” Gaby sing-songs under her breath, impish smile firmly in place.

He follows automatically, and comes to a decision only a few short steps later.

Pulling his hand free from Gaby’s Illya doesn’t miss the hurt that flashes briefly across her face, quickly chased by surprise as he tucks her into his side with a possessive arm around her back. 

“Keep moving,” he says quietly, not bothering to hide the smile stretching across his face, “or they’re going to get suspicious.”

And Gaby starts to laugh even as she brings her arm up to slide beneath his jacket and curl around his waist, fingers tucking into a belt loop.

“You’re an idiot, Illya,” she sighs fondly, and he knows she’s not referring to just _now_ , and Illya feels the shadows around him lighten just a little bit. 

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**Author's Note:**

> I decided to challenge myself with this challenge and man, did I ever accomplish that! Apparently angst is very, very hard for me to write :/
> 
> Fraulein: young lady


End file.
